Night Covers
by DareU2Bme
Summary: In an attempt to escape family drama, Stiles cuts himself off from friends and family and moves away to a small town in California. He works a crappy, dead-end job, lives a mostly isolated life, refuses to admit he's lonely, and even loses contact with his dad. What turns it all around is a series of very unexpected events.
1. Chapter 1

How Stiles ended up living in a town even smaller than Beacon Hills could be anyone's guess.

He found himself pondering that very mystery for the umpteenth time as he took his usual route to work that afternoon. The distance between his apartment and the mini mart he worked at was maybe a five minute walk. It definitely was not worth driving, especially when his shift always started during the busiest time of day and parking in the area was atrocious. Stiles' shift never changed; it always started at 4:30 pm and ended at 1:30 am with an hour's break at 8.

Stiles pulled his knapsack further up his shoulder and marched down the decrepit alley. Three school-aged kids stepped out from between two houses to his right, walking in a tight group whispering among themselves as they went. Stiles smiled thoughtfully in their direction as he continued on. His whole childhood, adults had always told him to enjoy being a kid because adulthood wasn't all it was cracked up to be. He never believed them, but now… well, he definitely knew what nostalgic melancholy felt like.

"My kingdom for a careless afternoon," he mumbled to himself as he instantly thought of days back home spent running around the Beacon Hills Nature Preserve with his childhood best friend, Scott.

That wasn't to say that Stiles' life as an adult was stressful by any means. He lived fairly simply on the fourth floor of an old but clean apartmentplex. The fourth floor was also the top floor -the building didn't even have an elevator! It was actually the largest apartment in town -there were only three. Yeah, it really was a small town; just big enough to come across a handful of faces each week that he didn't recognize, but small enough that the majority of them... well, he did.

Small as the apartment and town was, though, Stiles didn't really know many people. Recognize, yes; know personally.. uh, no, not at all.

There was Mrs. Higgins who lived directly across the hall and stood as a living warning to any girl who prefers the company of cats over people. She was in her sixties or seventies, vastly overweight, had an oxygen tank she had to wheel around with her at all times, and at least four more cats in her apartment than the allowed two. She was nice, though, and quiet -both things pretty much everyone looks for in an apartment neighbour. Stiles could have liked her well enough, but he mostly just worried he'd one day be the one to discover her body; four days dead, stinking, and partially eaten by her beloved cats.

Emily and Don lived in the apartment to his left. They were a young couple who had been together since their late teens. They invited him over for wine-tasting parties sometimes when he first moved in, but Stiles always politely declined. Mostly, he genuinely couldn't make it because of his evening shift, but there was one or two times when he just didn't want to go. Some people might have called Stiles antisocial, some might have even called him a Shut-In. There's no 'but' to that sentence; they'd be right.

Stiles smirked to himself at that thought, imagining the looks of disbelief the majority of his teachers and fellow students would have exhibited had anyone told them such a thing. Yeah, Stiles may have pulled a rather impressive 180 since highschool, but life changes the man.

On the topic of "Shut-In"s, living in the apartment to his right was a man Stiles only saw on the rarest of occasions. Stiles wasn't sure if the man was actually super-humanly attractive or if the mystery of him had upped his attractiveness, but, either way, he was a rather beautiful specimen. Stiles had never actually spoken to him directly beyond a quick "good morning" or "hey" in the hall that would never get a response beyond a hum. He could probably count on his fingers the amount of times he had even seen the man. Still, for whatever reason, the man left a strong impression and Stiles might have fallen a little bit in love with him ever since first catching sight of him in the hall about three months ago.

Stiles groaned to himself at his ridiculousness. Okay, so maybe "love" was a bit dramatic, but he always did have a flair for such. Definitely some sort of infatuation, then -that wasn't off the table. He had maybe spent that very walk to and from work making up the guy's backstory over and over with different scenarios, or adding detail to old ones. It wasn't his fault! The guy was the worst kind of enigma… a handsome one.

That thought still at the forefront of his mind, Stiles rounded the bend in the alley before turning off to slide between the two old buildings standing so close together that they definitely wouldn't have been up to code in any recent years.

"Thank the permit gods for grandfather clauses," muttered Stiles to himself as he gave the narrow alley a glower.

He jumped up the two rickety, wooden steps to the side door and pulled it open. Abby was rifling through her bag where she was sitting in the creaky old chair next to the store's safe. She looked up when Stiles walked in and gave him a quick smile before turning her attention back to her bag. She always worked the shift before him.

"Big plans for the weekend?" asked Stiles as he set his bag down on the dusty floor next to her.

Abby made a face and shook her head, "nope, I work tomorrow and Sunday."

"Sucks," said Stiles, glancing at the schedule pinned to the wall while he put on his red apron with 'Jon's Mini Mart' written across it in a peeling white.

"Yep," she said before standing up and pulling her bag over her shoulder. "See you later."

"Bye," responded Stiles as he watched her leave out the door he had just come through.

He took a deep breath and blew it out his mouth, rolled his shoulders and neck a few times, and then stepped through the swinging door between the back of the store and the front. He'd have Dawn for company until 9 when she got off and then it would be just him and the old convenience store (plus the odd customer), until he closed up at 1 AM. He'd have half an hour after that to cash out, clean up, take out the trash, and lock up. It was always the same.

Stiles let the heavy door fall shut behind him as he left work that night. After every shift, he'd tell himself the same thing; 'I've really gotta find a new job'. And yet, he'd go back in the very next day, never once giving notice. What he needed was one of his friends nearby to kick his ass. Scott would give him that weird, crooked sympathy-grimace and say 'as long as you're happy, dude'. Allison would ask him some random, flippant question about his life or goals that'd end up resonating with him and suddenly have him questioning everything. And then there was Lydia; beautiful, fiery Lydia. She would kick his ass, call him all sorts of names, and then give him a fond smile and tell him she'd help him figure something out.

Stiles scrubbed a hand across his face and up into his long, shaggy hair that was far past needing a cut. He let out a second sigh, pulled his bag further up his shoulder, and then started his walk home. It was his fault he no longer had any friends, so there was no point in feeling sorry for himself.

He started on his quick trek home in the dark, dodging the worst of the potholes by memory instead of sight.

He was not far from his apartment and looking forward to dropping down on his bed without so much as undressing or brushing his teeth when he heard a rustling to his left. Stiles faltered in his stride, glancing into the deep shadows on the edge of the alley. There were no streetlights in the dark alley and the sky was overcast blocking out even the stars and moon. The lights from the houses were warm and bright, but they only served to make it more difficult for Stiles' eyes to adjust.

More rustling.

Stiles paused altogether. Goosebumps rose on his skin and his heart-rate ratcheted up in his chest; adrenal gland at the ready. He couldn't see anything as he squinted in the direction of the sound. Finally, he pushed himself to continue on. He was trying to convince himself it was just someone's cat, but he felt watched and vulnerable.

He told himself over and over in his head that mass murders don't hang out in small towns. Even if statistics would say otherwise, he tried his darndest to console his fraying nerves with the thought. It took a lot of self control to keep his pace to a walk instead of breaking into a run. He wasn't far from home, he could just sprint there and be done with it. Pride and the niggling fear that if he ran he'd be chased both kept him from running.

Of course, that's when a low growl, heavy and malicious, sounded from behind him.

Stiles had only a millisecond to think "ah shit" before he was knocked onto his knees by some animal. He was so caught off guard, that he didn't even try to get up at first. Then, it crashed down on him with the full force of its weight and Stiles went face-first into the gravel. He gasped for air as claws from the creature pressed sharp pinpricks into his back. Someone was so getting sued for letting their damned Cujo run at large. Fucking Dogs.

Stiles tried to squirm out from under the dog. It was growling down at him, it's heavy front paws on his shoulder blades. It went still for a moment, bending down to breathe hotly against the back of his neck and fill Stiles with dread. His movements seemed to set it back into action, though. And, as he tried to push it away, things took a turn for the worse. Sharp teeth were suddenly clamping down on his side, puncturing skin and pushing a completely humiliating, horribly shrill, strangled cry from Stiles' throat. He really couldn't be bothered to worry about how he sounded though, not with freshly-sharpened butcher knives slicing through skin and flesh. The pain was both ice and searing and the shock of it was absolutely immobilizing (even moreso than the 200+ pound dog on his back).

Stiles wanted to call out for help, but he couldn't seem to control any of the sounds that were actually leaving his mouth. Finally, he drew in a breath. It felt like forever, but it was probably only seconds (if that). He rolled to his side, kicking out as hard as he could in an attempt to free himself from the dog. It growled again; wet, sticky saliva falling on the back of Stiles' neck making him instantly think of rabies.

Stiles rolled over and squirmed on his back away from the dog, kicking out at it repeatedly. He still hadn't gotten a good look at the thing, all he knew was that it was freakishly large and scary as hell. A gigantic paw landed heavily on his chest before Stiles could get up. The claws were a sharp threat, pricking at his chest through his layers of clothing.

Stiles kicked again, his breath coming to him in tight pants. The gigantuan dog seethed, it's eyes suddenly glowing strangely in the dim light, before sinking its teeth into Stiles' bruised flesh yet again. It twisted and tore at Stiles, mutilating the left side of his chest and bringing tears to Stiles' eyes. Stiles let out a pained cry, his head thunking back against the packed gravel and his breath leaving him. He began to think of his life's regrets (like losing contact with his dad and leaving Scott behind), figuring he was right on the cusp of death, when suddenly the dog released his mutilated flesh from its grinding teeth and vanished back into the night.

Stiles laid there for a long time trying to catch his breath. The pain throbbed all over his body, his clothes were torn and were beginning to saturate with warm liquid. Blood. He might not have died under the dog, but it seemed he could very much die before getting home.

He had no idea why the dog just randomly left or whether it might return. He knew he needed to get up and go home to check his wounds. It was very likely that he needed to get to the ER for a rabies shot and some serious stitches. He told himself he would get up after a few more minutes. When the minutes passed, he told himself the same thing, again. Then again. And again. He was so tired and his head was throbbing and spinning. His body hurt all over and even just breathing made the wounds in his chest and side sting and burn.

He was nearly asleep when a strange, throaty howl echoed through the air. It startled him back into full awareness, despite his cloudy mind. Had the dog actually been a wolf? No, there were no wolves in California, and even if there were, they wouldn't hang out in a back alley in the middle of a town. Besides, the howl didn't sound shrill or long like a wolf's; it sounded… wrong.

Finally, Stiles forced himself to get up. He decided the spinning in his head was only going to get worse and he needed to get off the road. He would be better off if he could just push himself to get home. So, slowly, achingly, he got to his feet and began to limp home. His ribs felt bruised, the cartilage between them quite possibly torn. All his joints hurt, his knees felt raw from the gravel and, worst of all, were the bites where the monster-dog had torn into him.

It was 2:42 am when he finally arrived at the front door of his apartment building. Stiles had checked the time on his phone while stiffly digging through his bag for his keys. He felt increasingly weaker and his breathing more and more laboured. Once he was in the building, he had to take another moment to just breathe before even considering the stairs looming ahead of him.

If Stiles had the energy to spare, he'd probably be hating on his apartment for not hating an elevator more than ever. The time it took him to drag himself up the stairs was enough to give him the chance to again consider the many mistakes he had made in his life. He doubted he was being very quiet as he wheezed and groaned his way up those stairs. He couldn't care, though, not when he felt like he could very well be dying. It was a terrible feeling.

Finally, he made it to the top floor. He pressed his shoulder against the wall when he reached the beginning of the hall and stared forlornly down it. He was panting, his head was spinning, his eyes couldn't seem to stay focused, and his apartment door looked much further away than the some forty feet it was. He couldn't seem to make himself strike out, again, on his long-winded journey. Those last few feet were just too many. He slid down the wall into a pile of limbs and tattered clothes, instead. His head drooped to the side like a wilted plant and he closed his eyes.

Sleeping.

Yeah, sleeping seemed like a good idea. He could sleep right where he was. The stinky, old carpet seemed soft enough right then. He would rest for a bit and continue his trip at a later date.

The world was growing dark when, suddenly, the door right next to him opened. Stiles struggled to focus his eyes, struggled to make his mind work. He was next to the handsome serial killer's apartment, so that attractive man who was suddenly crouched down in front of him and looking worried was probably the handsome serial killer.

"Murderers don't wor… you… preddeh eyes… mmmrph… v-necks," Stiles managed to say.

The man's brow furrowed in confusion as if he didn't realize he had pretty eyes and a body so great that he could get away with those ridiculously deep v-necks Stiles had seen him wear a few times in the past. Such a silly, handsome serial killer.

Stiles fell over, then. The world went completely black.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles woke to a strange kitchen and a lot of pain.

He let out a low groan, closing his eyes just as soon as he had opened them. Even so, it was long enough to gather those two tidbits of information; 1. kitchen, 2. not his own. He didn't need his eyes open to know about the pain.

A few seconds after, the lights in the room flicked off. He could tell because there was no longer liquid lava on the other side of his eyelids. Someone turned on a lamp of some sort that cast a much softer light. Stiles dared to open his eyes again -slowly, in increments.

"My apologies for leaving you to sleep on the hard, tile floor," spoke a smooth voice as Stiles tried to focus on the face peering down at him just to his left. "You were making quite the mess and I really would like my damage deposit back when I move."

It struck Stiles as an odd thing for someone to say to someone else when they first woke up in their home, but then, Stiles couldn't think of anything more appropriate. He tried to speak, but his voice seemed trapped in the desert of his throat. He swallowed a few times, but to no avail. The man seemed to understand his plight, though, because he quickly produced a glass of water and helped Stiles to sit up in order to drink it. Stiles had to choke down a sob, tears springing to his eyes as the movement made every pain in his body multiply. Still, he drank greedily, letting the cool water dribble out of the corners of his mouth. The water hit his stomach like a truckload of cinder blocks, however, and he was suddenly leaning over and heaving.

"Lovely," was all the man said, leaving Stiles for a moment before returning with something to clean up the mess. Stiles laid back down and let out a more pathetic moan than the one he had let out when he first woke.

"Handsome Serial Killer Guy," croaked Stiles when the man returned to his side, again, after cleaning up the mess. Stiles was such a pain in the ass! He bleeds and barfs all over the man's floor, and then all he can do is call him by the title that he was only ever supposed to call him in his own mind. He couldn't blamer his friends and family for trying to replace him.

"What?" answered the man, his smooth face contorting (as much as Stiles could see with his eyes still a little fuzzy) in confusion.

"Sorry," Stiles amended. Yeah, that was a much better thing to say; still pathetic, but way better than 'Handsome Serial Killer Guy'.

"What happened to you?" asked the man, then. "Do you need the hospital?"

Honestly, Stiles was surprised the man hadn't taken him already -or at least called 911, if not out of concern for Stiles, then concern for himself. Who just shows up at a stranger's door all tore up and blacking out? Totally rude move. Stiles was so rude.

"I don't know," replied Stiles, not able to waste much breath on extra words.

They sat in silence for a while -well, Stiles laid in silence and the man crouched beside him, also in silence. The point was that no one spoke.

"You look like you need stitches," the man finally said, but it was at the same time that Stiles burst out with "what's your name?"

"Peter," replied the man after a short pause. "And you're Stiles, correct?"

"How…" started Stiles, but the man shook his head.

"Let me ask some questions first," said Peter. "Do you feel any shortness of breath?"

Stiles moved his head in a weak attempt at a shake; no.

"Where's the worst of your pain?" he asked, then.

That was a question that took Stiles a little while to consider. His side hurt, his chest burned, his head throbbed, his stomach was still rolling, and his eyes were still quite unhappy with the light in the room.

"My head, I think," said Stiles, finally.

"Did you hit your head very hard that you remember?" asked Peter.

"I don't know, maybe?" said Stiles. "No harder than anything else."

Peter nodded to himself. He held up his hand, then, and asked Stiles how many fingers he was holding up.

"That doesn't work," said Stiles with a humourless puff of laughter that hurt his side, "my coach back in highschool always did that to see if we had concussions, but it didn't really tell him anything."

"Obviously, your coach just didn't know what he was doing," replied Peter, changing how many fingers he was holding up. "It isn't to tell if you can count the fingers, it is to let me watch your pupils as you focus your eyes."

Stiles raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Dude," he said, hoarsely, "mind. blown."

Peter chuckled softly, though he didn't actually seem all that amused.

"One last question," he said, then.

"Shoot," answered Stiles, but it came out with an odd sort of slur to it.

"What happened?" asked Peter, narrowing his eyes at Stiles.

"Mmmnnno idea," replied Stiles. He wanted to illustrate his incredulity of the situation as a whole with a motion of some sort, but he could barely even get the words out. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat before continuing. "A really big dog," he said, using all his energy to keep his words clear.

"A dog?" asked Peter, disbelief written clearly across his face.

Stiles attempted to shrug, against his better judgement. The throbbing behind his eyes was growing worse. He wondered why this Peter fellow wouldn't take him to the hospital. It seemed very much like an Emergency Room sort of situation. But, Peter could have just left him to die in the hallway, so he couldn't actually be angry with the guy.

"Attacked on m'way home," Stiles struggled to explain. His eyes were going unfocused again. "'xcuse me, gotta… pass out, now."

Stiles woke again.

This time, the kitchen didn't seem quite so strange, but it was still not his own. The room was filled with the low, morning light conducive to having all the windows facing west. Peter wasn't at his side this time with a glass of water, but the room wasn't spinning, either, so it was a win. There was a scratchy blanket laying heavily over him. Stiles slowly sat up, his side aching but not near the level of pain he would have expected. He wondered how long he'd been out if his side was already partially healed. He realized, then, that he was shirtless.

"Hence the blanket," he mumbled to himself, pushing it down to get a better look at his torso.

He had big purple bruises all over his chest. His pec that had seemed mutilated beyond repair was intact, but had an interesting pattern of light pink, newly healing skin all over it. His ribs felt sore to move, but didn't feel broken and his head was beginning to feel clear. Carefully, Stiles got to his feet. He felt weak, but not horrible.

The good thing about the apartment building was that every apartment was the same layout. The ones on the west side of the building were simply mirror images of the ones on the east. Stiles knew his way to the bathroom and didn't need to take any additional steps on his shaky legs.

He flicked on the bathroom light and looked in the mirror to find his face pale, his eyes bloodshot, and some impressive green and purple bruises on his face. He wondered, again, how long he had been out, because his bruises looked old; purpling before they turned brown and faded entirely. He turned on the tap and washed his face with cool water. Peter must have cleaned his wounds, because he was mostly devoid of the amount of dirt, mud and blood one would expect after a late-night scuffle with a rabid dog.

"Fuck," he hissed to himself, his voice sounding foreign in the quiet apartment. "Rabies."

What if he had contracted rabies? How long would it take for it to set in? When would he start to see symptoms? Was it too late to get the shot?

Stiles leaned over the sink, bracing his hands on the counter on either side, and tried to control his breathing. He was still there, working diligently on keeping the panic attack at bay, when the apartment door opened and shut. Moments later, Peter found him in the bathroom, swallowing down bile and gasps of breath.

"Stiles," spoke Peter.

Stiles shook his head. He didn't want to be touched, he needed to work through it on his own. Peter seemed to get that and kept his hands to himself -that, or he wasn't a touchy-feely guy like Scott was. Either way, he gave Stiles some room, but didn't leave him altogether. It was good. Stiles turned his attention back to his breathing.

When the worst seemed to have passed, he stepped back from the sink and sunk down to the floor. He leaned back against the wall and let out a soft sigh. He felt so tired.

When he cracked open an eye to look at Peter, the man was crouched down near him, looking concerned. The wrinkle in his brow made him finally seem more human than sexy enigma.

"Panic attack?" asked Peter.

Stiles swallowed dryly and nodded.

"Are you good, now?" he asked, then.

Stiles nodded, again, this time more tentatively. Peter was staring at him with a scrutinizing squint to his eyes.

"Well," he said, then, getting to his feet and reaching down to offer Stiles a hand, "let's get some food in you. Low blood sugar usually brings them on worse."

"Thanks," said Stiles, allowing Peter to help pull him to his feet. He felt wobbly as he followed Peter back down the hall.

Peter directed him to a chair beside the small dining table. Stiles watched his back while he moved around the narrow galley kitchen. Soon, Peter set a glass of water and plate with an amazing looking sandwich in front of Stiles. He sat down in the chair across from him with a sandwich of his own. They ate in silence, regarding each other the entire time. It should have been awkward. It wasn't. It was definitely odd, like something from a strange dream, but it wasn't awkward.

Finally, Peter set down his nearly finished sandwich and spoke up. "You must have some sort of fortunate medical condition," he said.

Stiles' confusion must have shown on his face, because Peter explained. "I've never seen anyone heal as quickly as you have. It's almost… supernatural."

Stiles swallowed heavily in surprise, the bread scraping thickly down his throat. He grabbed the glass of water in front of him and took a few swallows before responding.

"How long has it been?" he asked.

"Hours," replied Peter, narrowing his eyes accusingly at Stiles.

Stiles coughed heavily.

"What?" he gasped.

Peter pursed his lips and simply shrugged.

"What do you mean hours?" reiterated Stiles. "That doesn't make any sense!"

He jumped up from the table and nearly fell over himself in his hurry to return to the bathroom. Peter followed him at a more reserved pace. Stiles paid him no mind besides knowing the man was following him. He stared at himself in the mirror; poking and prodding at sore bruises and sensitive, newly-closed skin. Even only minutes later, his body looked to be in better condition than the last time he had checked.

"This… doesn't make… any… sense," he repeated staring at himself in the mirror as his heart threatened to beat right out of his chest. He wasn't sure if he was excited or terrified, but he was definitely something.

"I'm guessing this hasn't happened before," said Peter coolly from behind him.

"What the hell, man?" asked Stiles, spinning around to face the guy.

Peter stood leaning against the door jam, arms crossed over his chest, looking completely unbothered. He smirked ever so slightly. Really, it was just a slight twitch of the corners of his mouth, but it was there. Stiles glared.

"Curious," said Peter, pushing away from the wall to move into Stiles' space.

"Hey," Stiles started to protest, but he went silent as Peter touched his face and pushed his shaggy hair off his forehead.

He might be confused and alarmed, he might even be mad at the guy, but none of that changed the fact that he'd been lusting over Peter for months. To have the man in his space, touching his face, his scent intoxicating and his intense gaze directed at Stiles… well, it was distracting. So, maybe the guy was touchy-feely. He was definitely doing a lot of touching and feeling. Stiles was not gonna say no, though. He might have been half-dead a few hours ago, but he was feeling pretty damn alive with Peter in his space, now.

Then, Peter pressed down on a bruise on Stiles' forehead. It served as a rather sound spell-breaker.

"Fucking ouch!" exclaimed Stiles, batting Peter's hands away.

Peter took a small step back, but his sharp eyes never left him. Stiles felt nearly paralyzed under them. He fidgeted, but stayed frozen to the spot. Finally, when he couldn't take it any longer, he threw out his arms and gave Peter his best judgemental face.

"Are we done with the creepy staring, yet?" he asked.

Peter's mouth twitched with that condescending smirk, again.

"Fascinating," he said simply and without explanation.

Then, Peter turned and headed back toward the kitchen. Stiles suddenly felt unbalanced without those predator's eyes staring him down. It took him a few seconds to shake off the feeling before he could follow after Peter. The man had sat back down at the table and was continuing to eat his lunch as if the entire world of rational science and biology hadn't just been turned upside down. Stiles stared disapprovingly at him for a few moments before returning to his own seat.

"Would you like another sandwich?" asked Peter, politely.

"Are we not going to talk about this?" returned Stiles, eyes wide with disbelief.

"You were hurt, you healed," replied Peter with another mini shrug. "Seems like a fortunate course for the day's events."

"Yeah, lucky for you," spat Stiles, feeling frustrated at Peter's once-attractive-but-currently-very-very-very-NOT aloofness. "Why didn't you take me to the hospital? I could have died... or something."

"Hospitals and I don't really get along at the moment," replied Peter.

The man took Stiles in but refused to take him to the hospital because… he doesn't like hospitals? Stiles knew all about not liking hospitals, but seriously, the guy was prepared to let Stiles die in his apartment just because he didn't like hospitals!?

"You could have called 911 and have an ambulance do your dirty work," accused Stiles.

"I don't have a phone."

"What?" exclaimed Stiles, his anger over the hospital thing lost to his surprise, "you don't have a- not even a landline?"

"Nothing," said Peter.

"How do you even survive?" exclaimed Stiles.

"I don't have anyone to call," replied Peter, matter-of-factly.

Ouch.

"Well, anyway, you could have used my cell," said Stiles, instead, not wanting to dwell on whatever the depressing story behind Peter's last comment could be.

Peter gave him an unimpressed look. He grabbed Stiles' cell out of his mutilated bag and opened it to show Stiles.

"Ah, yeah," said Stiles, feeling momentarily stupid, "Damn those password protected phones… hey WAIT, I'm pretty sure you can still use emergency numbers when the phone is locked."

Stiles gave Peter another judgmental look. Peter didn't seem bothered by it.

"Well, let's just say," explained Peter cryptically, "the less the police and I see of each other, the better."

Stiles' eyes widened at that.

"THAT'S why you're such a shut-in! You're a wanted criminal," he exclaimed. It all made sense and was coming dangerously close to Stiles' own made-up stories about Peter.

Peter let out a put-upon sigh.

"Back to the issue at hand," he said, making a small but ridiculously graceful gesture in Stiles' direction. Peter hadn't really been that interested in talking about it earlier, so, obviously, the attempted topic change was because Stiles was getting somewhere.

"That's a new mystery, for sure," said Stiles, but he leaned onto the table and stared at Peter with a grin crossing his face. "How about we clear up some previous ones, first. I've been wondering about your story for months! What are you wanted for?"

"Nothing as exciting as you'll come up with, I'm sure," replied Peter before taking another drink of water.

"Doubtful! You've got that whole mysterious Hannibal Lector thing going on," said Stiles before frowning down at his empty plate.

"I promise you, the meat on the sandwich you ate was procured at the local grocery store," said Peter. "If there was anything untoward in the meat, it was completely out of my hands."

Though he had been joking, Stiles was a little relieved.

"Okay, something else, then," said Stiles, thinking back over his many conjured scenarios of what this man could possibly be like. "I'm still thinking serial killer," he continued, "you've got the right level of charm that you could practically woo your victims to their deaths."

"Should I take that as a compliment?" asked Peter, still maintaining his aloof tone of voice, but Stiles could see emotion beginning to show on his face. His eyes were a warning, but his mouth kept doing that amused twitching thing. Stiles really wasn't sure how to read the guy. He pressed on, anyway, not able to give up on this now that he finally had a chance to learn the true story.

"Maybe you're a serial avenger," he said. "Maybe you have this terrible back-story and you had to go out taking revenge on everyone involved! Now that it's done, you're just hiding out. Or maybe there's one more person you're waiting to snuff out."

"I am not a comic book character, Stiles," said Peter with an eye-roll, though his voice finally gave away some emotion. It was tight and when he stood from the table, his movements were stiff. "As much as I appreciate learning about the sheer volume of interest I've garnered in one my neighbours, it seems you are healed enough to return to your own apartment."

"Right, right," said Stiles, knowing he should probably stop pushing. The guy had been kind enough to take him in when he was bloodied and dying. He didn't have the decency to get Stiles professional medical help, but as it turned out, professional medical help hadn't been needed. Stiles knew he should probably leave the nice serial killer alone now that he had overstayed his shaky welcome. "Thanks for… uh, letting me bleed and.. urgh.. barf on your kitchen floor. And, thanks for the sandwich. I'll leave you to your next artfully arranged murder."

Peter opened the front door after grabbing Stiles' mutilated bag. He handed it to Stiles as Stiles left.

"I'm glad you're okay, Stiles," said Peter and, despite the whole kicking-Stiles-out thing, he even sounded genuine about it.

Stiles turned back and was about to reply, but Peter had already swung the apartment door shut and it clicked locked in Stiles' face.

"Sheesh," said Stiles, miffed. He smiled to himself, anyway.

"If my strange, superhuman healing goes into remission and I bleed out and die in my own apartment," he shouted at Peter's door, "I'm going to haunt you like whoa!"

He dug through the remains of his bag for his apartment keys, but ended up finding them in his jeans pocket. All the while, he was thinking about making a cool crime TV show about a mass serial killer and his witty ghost buddy. He couldn't help but grin to himself.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles called in sick to work that day. He apologized to the guy who he asked to cover his shift on such short notice and promised to take one of his shifts in return. After taking a shower and spending a long time staring at his almost completely faded bruises and scars in the mirror, he spent the remainder of the afternoon in pajamas watching old X-men cartoons and eating kids' breakfast cereal. After the amount of blood he had lost the night before, he figured sugary cereal and lazing on the couch was his best way to recover. Perhaps he was actually correct because, by nightfall, he was feeling himself once again.

We went to work the following day just as though nothing had happened. The only difference in his routine after that was the nightmares. Every night he would dream of deep, dark forests, glowing eyes, and the metallic taste of blood. He'd wake to the sound of a wolf's howl. It never made any sense. Post Traumatic Stress, he'd tell himself and simply get ready for his day.

Before, he had spent his breaks at work googling random things on his phone. That didn't change since the incident so much as finally gain a direction. He spent his short breaks on his smartphone googling medical journals and mythological lore alike trying to find answers for his miraculous healing. He was starting to wonder if Peter's surprise at his quick recovery was an act and the man had actually given him some sort of mystical herb when he was down for the count.

Things continued in that fashion for nearly an entire month until one night when everything came to a head. Stiles woke from another nightmare to find strange, animal-like claws protruding from his fingertips and extra hair in a lot of places where it hadn't been before. He tangled himself in his blankets in his haste to get out of bed, falling on the floor with a dull thud before jumping up with an agility he didn't know he had and running to the bathroom.

"Werewolf," he said, simply because one and one was two. It seemed ridiculous and unbelievable, but it was the best explanation. He laughed at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror. "I'm a werewolf!"

He touched his morphed face, ran his fingers over his protruding forehead, and bared his fangs at himself. It was amazing.

"I was attacked by a werewolf," he said to his strange reflection, his lips feeling funny as they tried to cover the larger teeth. "I was bit by a werewolf. I have super healing like a werewolf. I shift into a big-ass, hairy werewolf on full moons. I'm a fucking werewolf!"

His laughter turned hysterical for a few moments. He had to take a moment to just breathe so that he didn't have another panic attack, or whatever the hell it was that he was feeling. He splashed water on his furry face and stared at himself in the mirror for a few more moments. His face was slowly morphing back into the one he recognized as his own. Good. Obviously, he needed to stay in control of his emotions.

"Fuck that," he said, ignoring his own newly realized advice and left the bathroom and his apartment altogether.

"Peter!" he called out loudly as he pounded on the man's apartment door. "Peter! Peter, open up!"

It seemed like forever before Peter's door cracked open.

"Stiles?" hissed Peter through the small opening at the door. "Do you have any idea what ti-"

"3:23 AM," Stiles cut in. "Let me in!"

Even with his heart pounding in his ears, Stiles could hear Peter let out a resigned sigh from behind the door. Peter shut the door completely. Stiles would have yelled again, but he heard the telltale sound of the chain lock being slid out of place. Then, the apartment door was swinging wide. Stiles pushed in.

"Werewolves!" exclaimed Stiles in Peter's face.

The man grimaced before stepping aside to allow Stiles in.

"Just because I let you into my home one time, does not mean there is a standing invitation," said Peter somberly.

Stiles headed toward the kitchen table with two chairs that he had eaten with Peter at just a month earlier, but before he sat down, the timing had him bursting with excitement all over again.

"One month!" exclaimed Stiles in another eureka. "Quick, Peter, check to see if it is a full moon tonight!"

"What."

"I will bet my life's savings-"

"Which is probably under $100 if you even have a savings account," cut in Peter dryly.

"-that the night I was attacked was a full moon," continued Stiles, multitasking with a sassy glare at Peter while he paced the small room. "And then one month later, here I am!"

"Here you are," agreed Peter, frowning hard, "back in my apartment, uninvited and, again, ruining my night."

Stiles paused.

"You knew, didn't you," he said. "That's why you weren't concerned with important things like me bleeding out on your kitchen floor or getting me to the hospital for a rabies shot."

"I knew what?" asked Peter.

"That I'm a werewolf, now!" exclaimed Stiles.

Peter's eyebrows drew together for a moment, as if he were actually stunned and surprised. Then he shook his head and smiled almost sympathetically.

"Perhaps you did contract rabies," he said. "I apologize profusely, Stiles, for not getting you to the hospital for a vaccination." He stepped closer to Stiles and grabbed him by his shoulders so he could peer into Stiles' eyes. "It seems the brain inflammation is already getting out of hand," he said thoughtfully.

Stiles shrugged him off.

"Stop fucking with me, Peter," said Stiles. "You know about werewolves and you knew I had been attacked by one. You knew I'd either die from the bite or recover completely. I bet you don't even have a cool, murderous vendetta backstory."

"I never once said anything about murder or revenge," said Peter with the look of a man long-suffering, "you made that all up yourself in your love of fairy tales and little boy comic books. Additionally, I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. Werewolves are yet another creature of fairy tale and myth."

"So, you're telling me, you're just a complete asshole with no moral compass who had no problem allowing someone to die on your floor?" asked Stiles, anger getting in the way of his excitement.

"Perhaps," said Peter, infuriatingly calm in the face of such accusation. "Although, the fact that I even brought you in has to count for something. I could have left you to die in the dingy hall."

"Why didn't you?" asked Stiles, stepping into Peter's space.

Peter didn't step back to get a more comfortable amount of space between them, didn't seem bothered in the least. He didn't answer the question, either, though. He just smiled benignly. Stiles panted in rage. He wasn't sure why his emotions were so out-of-control at the moment, he didn't remember feeling so upset over Peter's decisions before. Really, he didn't remember feeling so angry and out-of-sorts at all. He couldn't seem to rein it back in. He couldn't seem to get his breathing under control. He couldn't… he was out of control and he felt another panic attack coming on. He was beginning to feel light-headed.

That was when Peter placed a hand in the centre of Stiles' chest and ordered him to breathe. Stiles nearly crumpled right into him, gasping for breath and, finally, being able to work at getting it back under control. Peter wrapped his second arm around Stiles' shoulder, his hand grasping firmly, but gently, at the back of his neck. They breathed together until Stiles felt himself again.

"The hell was that?" asked Stiles when he was finally able.

Peter let go of him and took a step back.

"Thanks, man," said Stiles before rubbing his hands over his face. "That… has never happened to me before."

Peter hummed.

He turned to the kitchen and started getting food items out of the fridge. Stiles slowly sat down in one of the chairs and was silent as he watched Peter work. He was dressed in a pair of dark purple lounge pants that hung loosely from his hips and looked like they were quite possibly made from silk. He had a worn, white t-shirt on top. It didn't match. He had probably thrown it on to answer the door. He was trim and fit, and as he bent slightly over the kitchen counter, the thin, white cotton of his shirt stretched over his shoulders revealing the musculature of his back. Stiles concluded that Peter must normally spend at least 40% of his day working out.

Peter worked quickly and, soon, another of his amazing sandwiches was plated and placed in front of Stiles. It made Stiles smile.

"Peter's miracle, mystery meat," he said to himself. "It heals all."

Peter set a glass of water down for Stiles before moving to sit on the other side of the table. Stiles took a big bite of the sandwich. Peter was smirking at him.

"What?" asked Stiles unattractively, his mouth full.

"Some people might wonder at the connotations behind such a title," said Peter with a shrug.

Stiles replayed what he had just said over in his mind before choking on the food in his mouth. He pounded a fist on his chest as his body tried to cough out what he was trying to swallow. He took a large swig of the water and managed to get everything down. He coughed a few more times and took another drink before giving Peter a dirty look.

"Dude," he grumbled, "not cool."

Peter's smirk only grew.

Stiles focused on eating his sandwich, his face feeling warm and the tips of his ears most likely turning red. He felt like an idiot for not being able to laugh it off, but… well… Peter.

"So, tell me again, why, exactly, are you here?" asked Peter.

Stiles swallowed the last bite of his sandwich and cleared his throat.

"Werewolves," he said, this time more seriously.

"Werewolves," repeated Peter with an exaggerated frown.

"You're either a really great actor, or you actually don't know what I'm talking about," said Stiles after taking a moment to scrutinize Peter's expression.

Peter gave Stiles a sardonic look before resting his chin on his fist.

"Humour me," he simply demanded.

"Everything adds up," started Stiles, feeling a spark of excitement returning to him. "Some sort of gigantuan dog just randomly attacks me out of the blue, I hear this weird howling in the distance, my wounds heal within 24 hours, I have messed up woodland dreams ever since, and, exactly a month later, I'm turning fluffy!"

"You're turning… what?"

"Fluffy," repeated Stiles. When it looked like Peter was going to abstain from using the world, he let out a disappointed breath and explained. "I had another crazy dream about eating little woodland creatures and running around through trees tonight. When I woke up, I had a lot of extra hair."

"You know, Stiles," started Peter after taking a long moment to give him a quiet, unreadable look. "When my nieces and nephew were little, I had this book I read to them to help explain about that special time in their lives when their body began to go through changes. Hmmm.. what was it called again? Oh. Oh, yes, now I remember. It was called 'I Can Grow Hair WHERE?'. It was actually a rather charming little book and informative, too. I don't have it any more, but I'm sure you could find it at the local library. It may help to answer some of your questions."

Stiles stared at Peter as judgmentally as he could manage.

"Are you done?" he asked when Peter had finally stopped talking.

Peter smirked.

"I am not going through puberty, Peter, you inglorious asshole," he spat, though he couldn't help but be a little more endeared to the man simply for his sass alone. "I am a fucking werewolf!"

"Okay, okay," said Peter, nodding as if he actually was going to take Stiles' word for it. Then he sat back in his chair, crossed his arms across his chest and smirked. "Prove it."

"Huh?"

"Prove it," said Peter. "Turn into a werewolf right now. I want to see it."

"Well, I… uh…" started Stiles which only made Peter's smirk broaden. Stiles frowned, narrowing his eyes. "Fine," he said, "okay, yeah. I'll shift. You better stand back, though, I can't be held responsible for my actions when I'm in my wereform."

"I'm sure you're a ferocious beast," said Peter dryly, not moving from his slight recline in the kitchen chair.

Stiles stood up and moved to the middle of the room. He stood straight and tall with his hands out at his sides. He lifted his chin and closed his eyes. He had no idea what he was doing, but he had shifted by accident before, so he should be able to do it on purpose right then. It seemed like sound reasoning. He concentrated and tried to will the wolf out of him. He imagined himself shifting, he thought of the forests in his dreams, he thought of wolfy things like hunting and howling.

Nothing happened.

He tried again.

Nothing happened, again.

He closed his eyes even tighter, grit his teeth, and pushed at his inner wolf as hard as he could.

Nothing.

"Okay," laughed Peter, "okay, okay, stop, you're going to hurt yourself."

"I am a werewolf, Peter," grumbled Stiles as Peter wrapped an arm around his shoulders and moved him from where he had stood squared in the middle of the room.

"Of course, you can be whatever you want to be. Dream big, Kid," humoured Peter snarkily. "Just do it in your own apartment. It's nearly morning and I need some sleep."

Peter directed Stiles to the door and opened it for him before giving him a little push out.

"I am! I really am!" exclaimed Stiles. "You have to believe me! It all adds up, it all makes sense."

"Oh, yes, of course, it definitely makes sense," said Peter, nodding.

"C'mon Peter, open your mind, man," said Stiles as he was bodily moved into the apartmentplex hallway.

"No drugs, thank you," countered Peter, "you seem to be smoking enough for both of us."

And with that, he closed the door. Just like a month earlier, he closed it right in Stiles' face. Stiles huffed his frustration at the door directly in front of him before turning and storming across the hall to his apartment.

"Fine," he growled to himself shutting his apartment door behind him. "I probably wouldn't believe me, either."

He stormed to his room and grabbed his smart phone from where it was sitting on his bedside table plugged in to the wall to charge. He unlocked it and promptly looked up the lunar calendar for the month. So, it wasn't the night of the full moon. Tomorrow would be the full moon. Hmm. Perhaps he should prepare.


	4. Chapter 4

Despite his worries over it being a full moon that night, Stiles did alright throughout the following day. He didn't sprout fangs, fur or even an ugly, feral manicure. He slept until noon, ate a breakfast/lunch of scrambled eggs and toast, dithered around his apartment putting away anything he didn't want to accidently break in the case he turned into a werewolf that night, and, finally, leisurely got ready for work. He felt pretty much himself for most of the day, but under his skin there was a itchy, buzzing feeling that grew as the night drew closer. It didn't bother him that much, was just a steady irritant at the back of his mind.

Work was the same as it always was. He arrived on time, said 'hey' to the person who worked the shift before his on their way out (Jared this time, Abby had the day off), put on his red apron, and stepped out onto the floor to start his shift. Dawn wasn't talkative, just did her time and got the hell out of dodge promptly at 9 PM. Then it was just Stiles and his so-far-hypothetical wolf. Only three customers came in between 9 PM and 1 AM which wasn't unusual. Again, it had Stiles wondering how the owner even afforded to keep the damn place open so late.

"It doesn't make any sense," Stiles muttered to himself as he cashed out the register. He quickly counted out the coins and dollar bills, writing down the tally on a small piece of paper after each type. It was one upside to the remains of his childhood ADD and his natural ability with math, multitasking came easily. "The moonrise was at 11:32 tonight," he continued to tell himself, "so, at 1:10 I should be well into feeling the need to shift."

Was it all a dream before? The shift, the fur, the claws? Had that been part of the dream? He'd never had a dream so vivid he was actually confused between dream and reality before. Was it even possible? Was that weird buzzing under his skin all night just excitement in anticipation over something he had convinced himself would happen?

Stiles finished up at work, hung his apron on his peg in the back, grabbed his bag and headed home. He almost felt a little disappointed that he wasn't actually a werewolf. Sure, it probably messed with a person's lifestyle quite a bit and there was sure to be a few other downsides, too, but the idea of being a lycanthropic creature of the night had been sounding more and more awesome over the past few days. URGH, plus there was the embarrassment of having to admit to Peter that he was just an idiotic lunatic. He didn't necessarily have to admit it to Peter. They had gone for a year never speaking to each other, they could just go back to that. He didn't need to talk to him again besides a random "hey" in the hall, right? Totally… or, maybe Stiles should start looking in the rental ads in the newspaper and find a new place to live.

He set out down the gravel road in the dark, dodging potholes by memory and not by sight, just like every night. Just like the night.

Suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled and stood on end and goose bumps rose up his arms. Stiles stopped short, his breath coming in pants though he wasn't out of breath. He could feel someone's presence. He could feel someone powerful. There was a weird tightness in his chest and an urge to submit in his entire being. He shivered and hunched in on himself. The air felt suddenly too thin and too heavy all at once. Stiles looked around wildly. He half-expected the stupid, rabid dog to jump out at him again. There was nothing -no sounds of movement, nothing.

...and yet, Stiles was certain there was someone.

That was when a breeze picked up, rustling leaves and even pushing apart the clouds above. It was spectacular in a way that wasn't completely natural. The clouds drew apart almost purposely to reveal a glowing light in the sky above him. The full moon. It was bright and huge and so much larger of a presence than Stiles ever remembered it being.

A howl rose in the distance causing Stiles to shiver, again. It didn't truly sound like a wolf, but it sounded familiar. It sounded like it was for him. It was pulling him, calling him, urging him to obey. Stiles panicked. He ran home.

He made it in record time, quickly producing his keys from his pocket at the ground floor door like a magician. He ripped open the door and fled into the building, his entire body feeling on fire with desire to turn around and follow the howling call. He ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

"Peter!" he exclaimed when he burst out of the stairwell into his hall. He ran to Peter's door and banged on it. "Peter! Peter, c'mon, Peter!"

When Peter did finally open the door, Stiles nearly fell flat on his face on Peter's floor. Peter raised an eyebrow and took a step to the side to allow Stiles to right himself on his own.

"Peter!" cried out Stiles, again, grabbing the guy's arm and pulling him out of his apartment into the hall. "I need your help!"

"Uhh…" stammered Peter, having enough wherewithal to pull his arm from Stiles' grasp, but still looking slightly dazed.

Stiles leapt across the hall to his apartment door, digging in his pockets for his keys. He reached back to grab Peter's shirt once he had opened his door. He pulled Peter in after him. Stiles let the door slam shut behind them and spun Peter and himself around so they were facing each other. Peter was in his silk pajamas and that same thin, white shirt he had worn during their last nighttime encounter. Stiles was too busy trying to catch his breath and stay upright from the dizzying need to shift to truly appreciate how Peter looked -sleep ruffled and dazed.

"I need your help," Stiles said, again. "You've gotta stay here with me tonight, okay?"

"Not a generally accepted method of asking for sex, but…" said Peter wryly, purposely trailing off and shrugging. The innuendo was heavy and the way he had trailed off made it sound like he was almost willing. It was as if he would 'take one for the team' because he was in a generous mood. Belittling and sexy all at once… just how Stiles should have expected Peter to respond to such an offer.

"Oh. My. G- not like that!" exclaimed Stiles, before the possibility could truly fill him with hope. "Now shut up, don't be such a distraction!

"Distraction from what?" asked Peter, cocking his head to the side inquisitively.

"Right, yeah, yeah," said Stiles, nodding. "Okay, first I need to read up on the alpha's call. I'm sure I saw that somewhere when I was doing my initial research."

Stiles turned to rush out of the room, but stopped and spun around.

"Do not, under any circumstances, leave… uh, please?" he commanded of Peter. "Just, uh, just make yourself comfortable or something. I dunno, sit on the couch, make a coffee, whatever."

Then he rushed to the second bedroom of his apartment where he kept his computer and his growing library of books on so many random topics it would make a person's head spin. He pulled a few books off the shelf after dumping his bag on the computer chair, then hurried back out to the living room to make sure Peter was still there.

"Okay," he said when he saw Peter was standing across the room looking at the few framed photographs Stiles bothered to put up. "So, I know I saw it in one of these books. But, on the night of a newly bitten werewolf's first shift, his alpha calls him."

Stiles plopped down on the couch and pulled the coffee table closer so he could lay all the books out in front of him. Peter slowly walked across the room and sat down next to him.

"Werewolves again?" he asked, but he sounded a lot less judgemental than Stiles would have expected.

"I heard it," said Stiles, looking up from the book he was quickly flipping through.

"Heard what?"

"I heard The Call. On the way home from work, I heard it. I could feel it in my bones, it was calling me."

"That… seems a little… insane."

"I know how it must sound, but I was walking home, I heard the howl, and everything inside of me wanted to run to it," said Stiles before licking his finger and thumb so he could page more effectively through the next book. "It was terrifying," he added quietly.

The room went silent for a few beats. Stiles almost looked up from his book to check Peter's face, but it was then that Peter finally spoke.

"Okay," agreed Peter, softly. He scooted a bit closer to Stiles on the couch and looked over his shoulder at the book. "So where do I come into this?"

Stiles could have cried in relief.

"I need you to keep me from… answering the call," said Stiles.

He did look up from his book, then, but only to give Peter a grave look. Peter held Stiles' gaze for a few beats before finally nodding.

"Okay," he said, again.

"Yeah?" asked Stiles, his heart feeling as if it was beating double. Peter was so close and he was looking at Stiles so openly, so sincerely. It had been so long since Stiles felt like he had someone in his corner.

"Yeah," said Peter. "I'm not saying I believe this whole werewolf thing, but, either way, you obviously need someone here tonight, so… yeah. I'll stay."

Stiles let out a deep breath and gave Peter a small smile.

"Thanks," he said. "I know this sounds insane and you barely know me, but.. thanks."

Peter smiled slightly, just one corner of his mouth moving upward into a crooked smile. He looked almost fond and Stiles had to tap down the weird butterfly swooping motion it gave him in his stomach.

"Alright, so get back to the books," said Peter, turning their attentions back to the ones Stiles had laid out on the coffee table. "I need to learn about this Alpha Call thing you're talking about."

Stiles was sweating.

Peter had fallen asleep on his couch twenty minutes earlier. Dawn was only about an hour away, but it had thus far been the longest night of Stiles' life and that didn't look to be changing within the hour. The alpha had called him two more times since he had strong-armed Peter into staying in his apartment with him. Each time was increasingly stressful.

The idea of being a werewolf had actually appealed to him. Really, anything that would change him from what and where he was sounded appealing. But, pacing his living room as nausea gripped his stomach, fear the rest of his insides, and a strange thrumming energy his limbs, Stiles wasn't so sure about the whole werewolf thing anymore. Well, he was never sure about it, but it was definitely seeming more and more of a curse than a gift, the more he learned about it.

He glanced over at Peter every so often as he paced. He wanted to wake him, but he didn't know what the point would be. What could Peter actually do to help him? Did he really want Peter to sit and watch as he continued to pace and use panic attack coping techniques to keep the monster at bay? He was grateful Peter had agreed to stay, he was glad he wasn't doing this in his apartment all alone. Still, the issue was inside of him and, really, he was alone in his struggle… whether Peter was awake or gone altogether.

Did he really want the guy to see him like that, anyway? He barely knew him. They really weren't anything to each other besides neighbours in an apartment building.

And yet, Peter was the closest… anything, Stiles currently had.

How sad was that?

Stiles stopped pacing and turned to regard Peter fully. Stiles was still sweating, his heart still hammering, his stomach still in knots, and his body still thrumming with the shift, but he managed to stay still and watched Peter's sleeping face for a few moments. Who was this man laying crookedly on Stiles' couch, with his celebrity-good-looks and predator eyes? Why had he taken Stiles in that night a month ago? Why was he here in Stiles apartment this night?

It was then that the alpha's call sounded once more. Stiles fell to his knees at its intensity. He let out a high pitched whine and covered his head with his arms. He needed to shift. He felt like he would die if he didn't shift. If he shifted at the alpha's call, though, he was certain he would lose himself to the alpha. He wasn't even sure what it would mean, but he was hella sure he didn't want to go there. He pushed back at the need to shift. He forced himself to stay human without even understanding how or, in his currently crazed mind, why. The effort it took made him shake and whimper. He felt like he was trapped in a haze of torture.

Suddenly, a hand touched his arm. It was cool against his feverish skin. Stiles shuddered back momentarily before blinking a few times to clear his vision and looking up from behind his arms. Peter was crouched next to him, obviously having been awoken by Stiles' fit.

"Stiles," spoke Peter, his voice low and soothing, but with a command to it that somehow managed to rival the remnants of the alpha's most recent call. "Stiles look at me."

Stiles straightened slightly from where he had been curled in on himself, still on his knees. Peter took Stiles' hand in his own, his grip at once firm and gentle. Stiles felt himself wanting to melt into him, to have the comfort of his presence engulf him. Instead, he let out another whimper. Peter touched his face with the hand not being nearly crushed in Stiles' panicked, vice-like grip. Stiles closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. Peter's touch was quieting enough for him to remember his breathing exercises and other coping mechanisms he'd be utilizing like the lifeline they were only minutes before.

"You're okay, Stiles," spoke Peter. "It's almost morning."

He wasn't okay. Maybe, though, he could take solace in it being almost morning and, hopefully, with it would come a release from the alpha's grip on his sanity. Morning wouldn't be his savior when it came to everything else, though. He was alone, he was expendable, and he was so damn desperate that he had initially been happy to learn he might be a werewolf.

Stiles couldn't take it anymore, he pressed into Peter seeking the comfort his presence seemed to promise. Peter froze momentarily, but Stiles was too far gone for pride. He nuzzled his face into Peter's chest, folding himself up so as to fit as tightly against him as possible. It took a few beats, but Peter did wrap his arms around him. Stiles felt tears rolling freely from his own eyes at being held. In that moment, it wasn't just the alpha werewolf, it was everything. Finally, finally; human touch. Finally someone cared. Finally.

He tried to stay quiet, then, but his shoulders were shaking with sobs. He let it out before it exploded from him in some uncontrollable way. He pressed against Peter with such force that they almost toppled over backwards together, but Peter held him and shushed him softly as he cried. So, it wasn't his most shining moment of masculinity, but Stiles couldn't regret it then. He cried until his tears had dried up and his throat was hoarse from the low sobs and nearly-silent whimpers no one, but Peter, would ever hear. Peter, the stranger, who, for seemingly no reason, kept letting him in.

When the sun finally broke over the horizon and turned the living room a slight shade of pink, Stiles knew exhaustion deep in his bones. Peter had shifted them so he was leaning back against the couch and Stiles fell asleep with his head in Peter's lap and Peter's hand in his hair.

When he woke hours later, Peter was gone and there was a pillow under his head and a blanket over his body. Stiles didn't know how he felt about any of it.


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles peeked into the hallway from behind his barely opened apartment door. There was no movement out there. He let the door fall silently shut to quickly pull on his sneakers and grab his new bag (he had to buy after the werewolf ruined his other one). Then, he pushed it open a crack, again, to, again, peek out into the empty hallway. Still, no one. He quickly jumped into action; moving around the door into the hall, closing it as soundlessly as possible behind him and locking it with his keys. He was headed at a brisk pace to the stairwell when he heard another apartment's deadbolt sliding open behind him. Not daring to look, Stiles picked up the pace.

He let out a sigh of relief when he got outside without seeing anyone. He slung his long-strapped bag properly over his shoulder and across his chest, put his hands in his pockets, and picked his way down the heavily potholed back alley to work. It was afternoon. The sky was blue and nearly cloudless. There were birds flying overhead, singing their thoughts as they flew. Someone across the block was mowing their lawn, the mower's engine a distant, mildly irritating hum. A few kids were walking home together from school ahead of him in the alley. They were talking about the basketball practice that must have held them longer after school than other students. Stiles shouldn't have been able to hear their conversation.

Everything seemed a lot more vivid than Stiles could ever remember. Colours were brighter, sounds deafening, smells intoxicating -it was enough to drive him mad. He tried to focus on his breathing and the rhythm of his footfalls on the dusty gravel beneath him. It must be his heightened werewolf senses that had him reeling. Even though he'd been a werewolf for a month, by then, they were only showing up, now. It didn't make sense, but neither did the existence of werewolves. Would it always be like this, now?

Abby was sitting in the backroom, changing her shoes, when Stiles arrived. She looked up when he entered the building and gave him a quick, benign smile before going back to her shoes. She looked up again, a little more abruptly, though, a millisecond after. Her eyebrows were drawn together and a frown pulled at her bright red lipstick.

"You feeling okay?" she asked.

"Uh," breathed out, Stiles.

Somewhere in the store, someone was listening to music through earbuds. It was setting his teeth on edge. Abby put her work shoes in her backpack before getting up and stepping into a pair of her fancy, neon, high-heeled shoes she always liked to wear. She then stepped closer to Stiles, giving him a wary look.

"You hungover?" she asked.

"Definitely feel like it," agreed Stiles, pressing his fingers to his temples as the playlist switched to an even more obnoxious song made worse by the tinny earbuds. Vehicles in the street hummed and whined. A diesel truck rumbled in an earth-shattering way.

"If you're sick, don't get near me," she warned, looking a little more worried. "I can't afford to be sick this weekend, I have tickets to see…"

Stiles wasn't listening any more, though. The ancient air conditioner in the backroom's window had just kicked on and the high pitched shriek it gave was like nothing he had ever heard before. Stiles fell to his knees clutching at his ears.

"Oh, fuck," groaned Abby. "What're you on?"

Stiles looked up in confusion to find her squatting in front of him and looking divided on whether she should touch him with her half-raised right hand. The smell of her perfume was making his head spin.

"Are you ODing?" she asked with the tone of someone who'd been privy to it before and very afraid of seeing it again. "What did you take? Do we need to get you to the hospital?"

Stiles just whined as the sounds of the building and the town beyond continued to pound into him.

"Damnit, Stiles," exclaimed Abby, panic obvious in her voice by then. "You are not allowed to do this in front of me. Do you understand? This is notokay!"

They must have been making a lot of noise, because seconds later, someone approached. Their footsteps only added to Stiles' agony. A low, nasally voice began talking to Abby, but Stiles couldn't understand their words. He couldn't focus on anything. The noise was too much. It didn't even seem to have sound any more, it was just pain.

Someone shook him and Stiles managed to look up at them from where he had been rocking in a fetal position on the floor, his head under his arms.

"...someone we can call," was the tail end of the man's query.

Stiles stared at them unblinkingly. Someone had cracked open his skull and filled it with lava and this guy was asking him about his address book?

"I'm calling 911," came Abby's voice, then, and it gave Stiles such a sudden moment of clarity that he yelped out loud. If he went to the hospital, they'd notify his next of kin, right? They'd.. they'd call his dad.

"No!" exclaimed Stiles. "No, no, no!"

"Who can we call, Stiles?" asked Abby, her voice tearful.

"P-Peter," said Stiles, "just… just get Peter."

"Peter?" asked Abby in confusion. "The neighbour guy you've been crushing on? That Peter?"

Stiles nodded emphatically before clutching at his head, again.

"Help me get him up, he doesn't live far from here," said Abby and then the man was in Stiles' space. His natural body odor was probably the worst scent Stiles had ever experienced in his life. He had to spend most of his energy keeping himself from vomiting on the man.

"...fuck.. is.. this?" slurred Stiles as he allowed the stinky, nasal-voiced man to strong-arm him to his feet.

"My boyfriend, idiot," said Abby as she moved into his other side, placing Stiles' arm over shoulders.

"Smelly," grumbled Stiles.

Abby snorted.

The next thing Stiles could really recall with any certainty was being held up against Abby's terrible-smelling boyfriend in the familiar-musty-tobacco smelling apartment with loudly creaking pipes and unhealthily groaning support beams while Abby knocked on Peter's apartment door. Stiles' head was beginning to clear now that the sounds and scents were falling away from the forefront of his mind into a lulling background of familiarity. Still, being able to hear his, Abby's and her boyfriend's, and even Peter's heartbeats all at once was unsettling in his already-unsettled state.

The apartment door opened to find Peter wearing one of his plunging v-neck shirts and a pair of dark-wash denim jeans. Stiles still felt dizzy and unfocused. His head was pounding with an epic migraine. And, now, a sudden wash of embarrassment was rushing over him. There had been a reason behind his stealth exit of the apartment before work not even an hour prior! That reason was standing in front of him looking confused and concerned in a pair of snug-fitting jeans. Stiles was so not ready to face Peter after the night before. He had cried on the guy and fallen asleep with his head in the guy's lap for fuck's sake!

And, yet, mortification and pride aside, the first thing Stiles did upon seeing Peter was let out a small whine and take a step toward him.

Peter had to quickly reach out to catch him. Stiles' balance was completely shot from the whole sensory overload thing that had resulted in him at Peter's doorstep (yet again) with his fellow mini mart employee and her boyfriend at his side. Peter wrapped his arms tightly around Stiles to keep him from falling, but Stiles was going to pretend it was a loving embrace. Words were being exchanged around him, but he was busy nuzzling his face into Peter's neck and inhaling his scent. The smell was a million times better than Abby's perfume or her stinky boyfriend and some of the pain in Stiles' head began to subside as he filled his nostrils with it.

Peter walked them back into his apartment, taking a moment to close and lock his front door. Stiles just pressed closer into him. He couldn't get enough of Peter's smell, of his presence, of the sounds of his body merely existing.

"...strange, Stiles," said Peter, but Stiles only caught the last two words. He simply hummed and rubbed his face against the slight rasp of Peter's throat and underside of his jaw.

Peter pushed Stiles down onto his living room couch. Stiles hadn't seen Peter's living room before; not really. His couch was leather, but plush and comfortable. Stiles sunk into it for a millisecond before reaching needily for Peter.

"Your friend said you'd taken drugs," Peter continued to pry. Stiles didn't mind Peter's questions even though questions had always made him feel cornered as a kid (even when he hadn't done anything wrong). Peter could ask all the questions he wanted so long as Stiles could continue to appreciate the timbre of Peter's even voice. "I'm assuming this is another 'werewolf' thing."

Stiles smiled adoringly at Peter. Abby had said he'd taken drugs, hadn't she. Stiles was beginning to believe her. He certainly felt like he was on drugs; Ecstasy, maybe. He was definitely feeling the urge to take off his clothes and rub all over Peter and his things. It would be upsetting if Stiles were in his right mind. Really, though, Stiles was just happy Peter was now sitting next to him.

Peter grabbed Stiles' face in his hands and peered into his eyes. Stiles blinked slowly at him. He could feel a big, dopey smile growing on his slack face, but he didn't really care that much. What he needed was a plan to get Peter to put his hands on the rest of him, too.

"Pretty blue eyes," slurred Stiles, happily.

"Thank you, Stiles," said Peter, but he didn't sound right. Maybe he didn't believe Stiles. Maybe no one had ever told him that his eyes were pretty before. Maybe- "Did you take anything today?" asked Peter in a tone that demanded a response.

"Take anything," repeated Stiles, dumbly.

Peter let go of Stiles' face and leaned back on the couch to rub a hand over his face. Stiles was jealous of Peter's face because it had Peter's hand on it, instead of his hand being on Stiles' face. He was also jealous of Peter's hand because it got to be on Peter's face. That was kind of silly, but… well.

"Aspirin, Tylenol, Wake-Ups... Prozzak," listed Peter, judgement heavy on the last word.

"Ecstasy," supplied Stiles, helpfully.

"You… you took Ecstasy?" asked Peter, sharply.

"Uh… no," said Stiles, shaking his head. "No, drugs are bad. Never drugs. Dad would kill me."

Peter took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Stiles did the same thing, mimicking him.

"I don't know what's wrong with you, Stiles," said Peter around a sigh. "I'm going to get you a drink of water and then I think you should just sleep this off."

"Mmkay," agreed Stiles, leaning toward him as Peter got up. Stiles nearly fell off the couch as he bodily sought after Peter's disappearing presence.

He righted himself and then, moments later, Peter was at his side again with a glass of water in hand. He took Stiles' hand in his and placed the cup in it. Stiles liked Peter's hand on his. He grinned down at it.

"Stiles," ground out Peter.

Stiles looked up at him, finding his bright blue eyes looking a little stormy.

"Drink the water," commanded Peter.

Stiles was quick to obey.

Peter watched him drink the whole glass of water before taking the glass to refill it. He returned with it, again, and made Stiles drink all of it, again. Stiles was happy to obey Peter even if he wasn't really that thirsty.

"Do you want me to help you back to your place or are you- okay."

Stiles wondered why Peter kept saying things when he could be cuddling on the couch with him. It seemed like the better option. Stiles snuggled down in the comfy padding of the couch, pressing his face against the cool leather, and wrapped his arms around himself in a big self-hug. The familiar smell of Peter's home engulfed him making him feel safe and comfortable. He felt suddenly exhausted. He didn't even have to open his eyes to track Peter's movements around the small apartment. He could follow the sound of his heartbeat and soft, shuffling movements. He liked having Peter near.

Peter draped a light blanket over Stiles and left him to rest. Stiles snuggled further into the couch, uncurling from himself enough to take hold of the blanket to pull it more tightly over him. He fell asleep with a smile on his lips.

Stiles woke with a start. He had been dreaming of running through a deep, ancient forest. Peter had been there, his eyes always on Stiles, his presence always felt. He didn't run with Stiles, didn't move from where he stood in a small clearing, but his mind was always with Stiles, his voice guiding him in every decision he made. It wasn't a nightmare like all the prior forest-related dreams. No, this dream had been freeing.

Stiles sucked in a sharp, deep breath and rubbed a hand over his face before finally opening his eyes. Oh. He wasn't home.

"Oh," he voiced without meaning to.

The living room was unfamiliar and yet, somewhat familiar. It was obvious he was in Peter's apartment. It was dark -perhaps the middle of the night. Everything was still. Stiles rubbed his hands over his face, again. The events of the afternoon were coming back to him with a mortifying clarity. He remembered how sights, sounds and smells had suddenly begun to grow more and more overwhelming. He remember his break down in the backroom at work, remembered asking to be taken to Peter. He remembered seeing Peter and simply needing him with. every. ounce. of. his. being.

None of it made sense. The only thing he could conclude was that he needed to move to a different town. Pronto.

He had been embarrassed about his full moon night with Peter that morning, now he had a whole new list of grievances. There was no way Stiles could stick around. He had to get the hell out.

Stiles pushed the blanket aside and got up. He grabbed his shoes from where they sat on the floor next to the couch and resolutely did not think of the fact that Peter must have unlaced them and taken them off Stiles feet for him while he was passed out on the couch after coming down from his weird-ass werewolf high. He was at the apartment door, about to turn the deadbolt to unlock it and make his escape when Peter stepped into the small entry hallway looking tired and owlish.

"My sleeping patterns have taken a rather painful hit since meeting you," spoke Peter.

"I…" started Stiles, but he really didn't know what to say.

He was such an asshole. Peter had taken him in (yet again) out of the goodness of his little serial killer heart and here Stiles was sneaking out like a thief or... or… or an ashamed one-night-stand. Stiles let out a sigh and let his shoulders drop.

"I'm sorry," he said.

He could feel a lump forming in his throat. He silently yelled at it to go away. There was no way in hell he was going to add to his mortification by crying in front of Peter… again. He really didn't know what his emotions were doing, though. He was a mess. He wondered if this was what Allison and Lydia had meant when they talked about menstrual mood swings.

Werewolves and menstruating women were pretty much the same thing.

He laughed at the sudden thought. The laugh spilling out allowed his eyes to spill, too. Stiles found himself laughing and crying in Peter's entry dressed in his rumpled clothes, holding his sneakers in his hand, while Peter gaped at him in just his silk pajama pants. Oh… oh. Peter hadn't put on his white vneck that time. Well, damn.

Stiles laughed even more hysterically at that. Even while humiliated, exhausted, and likening lycanthropy to PMS, Stiles found Peter painfully attractive.

"I'm sorry," Stiles repeated, shaking his head.

Peter let out a soft huff that sounded like a mix between annoyance and resignation before he was suddenly in Stiles' space, hugging him.

"Fuck," ground out Stiles miserably as he melted into Peter. "I thought becoming a werewolf would make me badass. So far, it's only made me even more pathetic."

"You've definitely got some things to work through," agreed Peter levelly.

Stiles laughed weakly and leaned his head against Peter's shoulder. Peter was rubbing circles softly against his back as he held him. I was so nice; so very, very welcome. Stiles took a few deep breaths and then forced himself to step back.

"Thank you," he said as sincerely as he could before wiping his eyes with his arm. "I'm sorry for showing up on your doorstep with all my issues and emoting all over you. I… I don't… it's probably already become pretty obvious to you, but I don't actually have anyone, so… thank you for, uh, humouring me."

"My pleasure," replied Peter with a small smile that didn't reach his eyes. They were a pretty blue, but damn, Stiles couldn't believe he had said that.

"I'm… I'm just going to go, now," said Stiles, pointing his thumb over his shoulder at the door. "I'll try to not show up on your doorstep for at leastforty-eight hours, this time," he added wryly.

"Whatever will I do to fill my nights?" asked Peter with a crooked grin.

Stiles smirked, rolling his eyes. Some of his bruised ego seemed able to fit back in place at Peter's sassy teasing. Maybe he'd actually live beyond today's embarrassment, yet. First, though, he needed to go home and do more research. Maybe he'd sleep first, but he definitely needed to figure out what the hell had happened to him and how he could make sure it didn't happen again.

He noticed his bag sitting beside Peter's door and grabbed it up, tucking his sneakers under his arm so he'd have a free hand to open the apartment door.

"Good night, Stiles," spoke Peter to his back.

Stiles couldn't seem to make himself respond, so he just looked over his shoulder and did a weak little wave before stepping out into the hall, closing the door behind him. He walked down and across the hall to his apartment door and spent some time fishing through his bag for his keys before unlocking his apartment and stepping inside.

The clock on the microwave in his kitchen said 4:30 AM. Stiles' stomach rumbled, so he grabbed an apple before walking through his living room to drop his bag and sneakers down on the couch and continue on to his bedroom. Apple only partially eaten, he crawled under the covers of his bed and cuddled up to his pillow.

It didn't take long for him to fall back to sleep even though he must have already slept a good 10 or 11 hours. He didn't sleep long, though. He woke at 6 with the greys and golds of dawn. His sleep had been dreamless that time and he sauntered around his apartment in a sleepy stupor. He took a shower, had cereal for breakfast with his bath towel wrapped around his waist, threw out the half-eaten apple on his nightstand, and got dressed.

He had work again that afternoon, but decided to call in sick, again. Considering how he left at the beginning of his shift the day before, he doubted him missing work the next day would be unexpected. Then, he sat down on his couch with his laptop and got to 'googling'. He would figure this out and then he would stop being such a nuisance to those few actually in his life. He didn't want to actually have to move away to save people from himself, again.


End file.
